


Sex Dreams About (not so) Platonic Friends

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Kink Negotiation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Ron Weasley, Praise Kink, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Ron will do anything for Hermione... even go to a sex club with her despite the nebulous bounds of their relationship.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 26
Kudos: 54
Collections: Magic Begins From Within - A Dumbledore's Armada Flash Fest Challenge





	Sex Dreams About (not so) Platonic Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Magic_Begins_From_Within](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Magic_Begins_From_Within) collection. 



> Written for Magic Begins from Within - A Dumbledore's Armada Flash Fest Challenge. For purposes of anonymity, my alpha & beta will remain anonymous until the culmination of the competition, but I am grateful for their time and assistance. Thank you for reading! Any recognizable characters are property of J.K. Rowling; this is a work of derivative fiction that does not seek to claim ownership of the source material.
> 
> My prompt was Explore Your Kinks

"There's a new club in Knockturn Alley," Hermione said, twirling her pasta around her fork. "I was wondering if you might like to go?"

Ron froze.

He'd heard of this club... but surely it couldn't be the one that she was referencing. 

Hermione certainly wouldn't bring up a sex club to him.

They were friends.

Friends who sometimes snogged in the coat closet, but  _ friends  _ nonetheless.

He swallowed forcefully. Beneath the artful layer of hair she hid behind, he could see hints of a brilliant flush at the tips of her ears.

"Sure, 'Mione. When?" he asked, shovelling a bite of lukewarm pasta that he couldn't taste into his mouth.

She didn’t look up, boring her gaze into the wooden expanse before her instead. "Friday. Seven o'clock? Pick me up at my flat?” Hermione pulled her lip between her teeth, then glanced at her watch. “I have a meeting. See you then.”

Ron summoned every ounce of self-restraint that Auror training had instilled in him not to reach over the table and pull her into his lap.

Bugger.

* * *

That Friday, when Hermione opened the door of her flat, Ron's heart almost fell out of his arse.

She'd put her hair up. 

Of all the ridiculous, half-baked thoughts that could have sprung to the forefront of his mind upon seeing her, it was that her hair was up.

Most of it was, anyway. Delicate tendrils of it framed her face in loose waves, highlighting a dusting of pale pink along her cheekbones. 

His eyes roamed over her figure unabashedly. Her dress was a deep, sapphire colour, shot through with little silver threads that glimmered in the light from the lampposts. She looked like she'd captured the evening sky and imbued a dress with it.

When he finally managed to close his mouth and stop gaping at her like a fish that had inexplicably found itself beached, he said, "’Mione, you look fantastic."

A tentative smile lifted her lips. "So do you."

He'd chosen a suit that —of all people—Malfoy had gifted him. Theirs was a tentative truce, borne mostly out of the wizard's friendship with Harry and their joint efforts within the Ministry, but when one is offered a Pansy Parkinson original, by way of thanks for assistance on a case, it's best not to turn it down.

"Shall we?" A careful wave of her wand extinguished the lights in the flat and pulled the door shut, but all he could focus on was the long, lean line of her leg as it peeked out of the thigh-high slit of her dress.

Carefully, calling on the manners McGonagall had tried to instil during Yule Ball dance lessons, he accepted her hand and settled it into the crook of his elbow as he led her towards the Apparition point.

A high-rise apartment building greeted them when they landed, bracketed by shops and nestled into the negative space that had existed between the buildings mere seconds before they arrived.

Nerves churned in his gut, and he pulled her to a stop. "'Mione, are you sure about this?" The tension between them was a near-physical presence, lurking at his shoulder as he tightened his grip on her hand. "I don't want to—"

"Don't want to  _ what _ , Ron?" Hermione stepped into him, the careful boundary he'd created between them instantly disappearing with her proximity.

He scrambled for a logical response, trying to ignore the way her breasts cushioned against his chest. "It’s just… maybe we ought to wait. Date first.” 

Hermione's lips lifted in a fond smile. "Oh, Ronald... we've been dancing around each other long enough, don't you think?" She caressed his cheek with a smooth hand. " I'm sick of hiding our feelings in broom cupboards. I want to give this a real shot. But if you aren't sure, we can leave. "

“No.” Her touch was a balm to his nerves, and despite the apprehension raging within him, he leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering closed. Everything within him begged him to run with it, to pull her into his body and capture her lips with his and drag her back to the flat they'd just left. "I want this. Just... promise me that it doesn't end tonight." 

A wicked glint flickered in Hermione's eyes. Slowly, her finger left his chin and trailed down the column of his throat, over the smattering of hair at his open collar, and down his chest, until it came to a stop at the top of his trousers. "I promise."

His world came to a halt as her palm dipped lower, sliding over the placket of his trousers and his already half-hard cock.

"Christ, 'Mione." His hand shot up, tangling his fingertips into the hair at the base of her skull, likely wrecking the careful updo she'd woven it into. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this?" 

She pressed her forehead against his, breath hot as she exhaled against his lips. "I have an idea, yes." A heartbeat later she pulled away, beckoning him towards the entrance of the club, already opening for them.

Low lamps illuminated a long row of doors on the opposite side of the building. A circular, well-stocked bar dominated the room, and couples reclined in overstuffed chairs around it, a low hum of conversation underscoring quiet music filtering through hidden speakers.

An attendant clad in black approached them, her hair pulled back in a sleek blonde ponytail. "Welcome to Amortentia. You’re Ms Granger and Mr Weasley, I presume?” Hermione nodded, and the witch continued, beckoning for them to follow her. "Beyond the main hall, you’ll find private rooms separated by kink. The doors won't open unless all parties explicitly consent to the chosen activity.” She peered at them each in turn. “If you have any questions, please send a Patronus and an attendant will be with you shortly.”

With that, she was gone.

Hermione blinked up at him, a wicked grin unfurling over her lips as she leaned into him, pressing kisses to the underside of his jaw as her hands blazed a path to his trousers again. “What do you want to try?”

Groaning, Ron took her hands in one of his, pinning them behind her back as he tipped her chin up with the other. Merlin, this witch would be the death of him. “You decide,” he said, watching satisfaction light her eyes.

"I want to know," she said slowly, "what you've always wanted. From me... for us." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "I want to watch your fantasies." 

All the blood in Ron's body seemed to rush to his cock simultaneously as desire unfurled in him, hot and heady. "After you."

Hermione led him down the hall, past door after door with myriad kinks emblazoned on them. A golden glow glimmered around the penultimate door on the right, and it opened inward with a quiet  _ click _ .

The room was lit by a singular lamp. A singular overstuffed sofa faced a blank wall, and they sank into it gratefully.

The magic of the room settled over them as they arranged themselves on the sofa, Hermione tucking her feet beneath her and leaning into his space. Ron, try as he might, couldn’t get comfortable with nerves running rampant through him.

There was a certain level of vulnerability to showing her his fantasies without the conscious ability to pick which one they’d see, but he took a deep breath as an image took up the wall, akin to the films Hermione had taken him to see in Muggle London.

The image was dimly lit, but Ron recognised it immediately. It was a recurring dream, one that often left him breathless and uncomfortably aroused under the cover of night.

Hermione was laid out on a bed, bare except for a thin blindfold of silk covering her eyes. Her arms were bound to the headboard above her, legs were spread wide and affixed to the posts at the end.

She inhaled sharply beside him, tension coiling her body as she leaned into him. 

_ “Have you been good?” Ron asked, gaze intent on her.  _

_ Hermione nodded, her voice breathy as she pulled against the restraints. “I have. I promise.”  _

_ Running his knuckle over the valley of her breasts, Ron chuckled, climbing atop the bed to kneel between her spread thighs. A single digit slipped through her folds, caressing her with a teasing, featherlight touch. _

_ Hermione’s body bowed off the bed with a high-pitched keen. _

Beside him, Hermione’s attention was wrapt on the scene playing out before them. “This is what you’ve dreamt of?”

Ron ran a hand down her side as the scene on the wall progressed, and they watched his doppelganger lower his face to her cunt and licked up her seam with a long, broad stroke. “Some of it,” he whispered.

Slowly, he edged his fingers under the slit of her skirt. Hermione huffed a surprised breath but lifted her hips, allowing him to push her dress up and over her hips.

Just like his dream, she was bare.

A low groan sounded in the back of his throat as he smoothed a hand over her mound. “Is this for me?”

Hermione keened when he slipped a finger between her folds, teasing her entrance with its tip before circling the clit. “Yes, gods, it’s for you.” Her breath stuttered out as he dipped lower, nudging her entrance. “Preemptive planning.” 

“Gods, you’re such a good girl, ‘Mione,” he whispered, pressing forward into her. On the screen, Dream-Ron loomed over her, running his cock over her in motions similar to his own. 

Suddenly, a barrage of wandless magic assaulted him. Before he could blink, his belt disappeared and the fly on his trousers unzipped, the cool air on his member a shock to his system until her hand dipped into the open fabric and pulled him free. 

He nearly choked on his gasp when her hand worked up the length of him, gathering the bead of pearlescent liquid on his head and using it to lubricate her decent. Her voice was gravelly when she spoke again. “Is this for me?”

“Tease.” Grunting, he bucked his hips into her hand. The dream playing before them forgotten, Ron redoubled his efforts on Hermione’s core, fingers pistoning in and out of her in tandem with her hands on his cock. 

Watching Hermione like this—undone, wild, wanting—nearly stole his resolve, and he gritted his teeth against the coil low in his belly. “Christ, Hermione, you’re so fucking sexy.”

A crooked grin broke on her face as a low moan escaped her. “I’m so close. Gods, please—”

With near Herculean effort, Ron held off his impending release, crooking his fingers forward towards the spongy wall, and she shattered with a stuttering sigh.

Through it all, she worked him in tight, desperate strokes, and he followed her over the edge with a shout, colour exploding behind his eyelids.

His return to Earth was slow, punctuated by the shuddering aftermath of release. At some point, the dream had disappeared from the screen, low lamplight their only illumination. Hermione lay slumped against him, her head nestled in the crook between his shoulder and chin. “Hey, ‘Mione, are you alright?” He withdrew his fingers from her, drawing a displeased sigh from her, and tilted her chin up to him. 

A tired smile lilted her lips. “Never better.” 

He pressed a delicate kiss to her lips, a rogue delegation of pixies dancing in his belly. “Do you want to come back to my flat?”

Hermione tipped her head at the screen, a flush working up her chest. “Could we try that?” 

A torrent of swearing left his lips, and he scrambled for his wand, cleaned them both off, and swept her from the room.

They had a lot of time and mixed experiences to make up for. 


End file.
